


relighting a fire

by cywscross



Series: 100 Prompts Challenge [8]
Category: Fast and the Furious Series
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gen, Healing, Post-Fate of the Furious (2017), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Siblings, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22987117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: The first time Deckard catches his brother scratching his left arm bloody, he's torn between blowing up Toretto's house again and tackling Owen to the ground. Since the former would probably be in bad taste at this point and is also not an immediately available option, he goes with the latter.(Deckard has always had what others might call a bit of a tendency to overreact when it comes to his siblings.)
Relationships: Deckard Shaw & Owen Shaw
Series: 100 Prompts Challenge [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1542082
Comments: 9
Kudos: 137





	relighting a fire

**Author's Note:**

> For the [100prompts challenge on DW](https://100prompts.dreamwidth.org/).
> 
> [**Prompt:** 003\. Numb](https://cywscross.dreamwidth.org/17140.html)

The first time Deckard catches his brother scratching his left arm bloody, he's torn between blowing up Toretto's house again and tackling Owen to the ground. Since the former would probably be in bad taste at this point and is also not an immediately available option, he goes with the latter.

"What the _fuck_ , Deck?!" Owen squawks after Deckard literally knocks him from his chair and they both go arse-over-teakettle onto the floor. He has to dodge an elbow that would've crushed his throat if he'd let it land, because Owen's nothing if not exactly as vicious as Deckard taught him to be, but he figures he deserved that. Neither of them are much for being taken off-guard so suddenly, and Owen's been… not quite twitchy, but certainly extra vigilant lately, even in the safety of Deckard's penthouse.

Deckard doesn’t apologize though. He’s far more occupied with bellowing in Owen’s face, “What the bloody hell are you doing?!”

Owen stares at him like he’s lost his goddamn mind. "Working?"

Deckard snarls a wordless noise of impatience, then pulls back just far enough to yank Owen's right hand up between them. They both stare at his nails, crusted with fresh blood.

"…Oh." Owen says after a long stretch of silence. Then he smiles, and it's the one he usually gives everyone _except_ family, a stretch of muscles, crafted to charm and disarm, but reaching nowhere near his eyes, and Deckard has to suppress the urge to knock it right off his face.

"I didn't notice," Owen tells him, mild as milk, like that somehow makes it better. "Let me up. I'll slap a bandage over it, good as new."

Deckard glares, temporarily rendered speechless at the sheer gall of the crap Owen had just spewed. Owen doesn't wait for him to regain his speaking capacities. His smile twists, and that's the only warning Deckard gets before he's kneed in the stomach, dislodging his grip, and then tossed into the nearby wall a second after that. He rolls to his feet, none the worse for wear, but by that time, Owen's up as well and already striding away in the direction of the bathroom.

Deckard stalks after him but refrains from saying anything, shoving Owen at the sink and cracking open the medicine cabinet instead. Owen at least has the good sense not to fight him over this, washing the blood off instead before letting Deckard patch him up.

"Grafts didn't work out?" Deckard asks eventually once they've both stewed enough in the bristling tension. He knows Owen's looked into skin grafts, even went to see a couple doctors about it, but he hasn't mentioned any upcoming surgeries after that.

Owen shrugs one shoulder, flexing his left hand once Deckard lets him go, bandages a stark white around his forearm. "I'm considering it. The doctors said it won't get rid of the scars entirely anyway. Besides," He smirks, and it looks a little more real this time. "I'm still the good-looking one of the family either way."

Deckard snorts. "Pretty sure Hatts takes the prize for that, you vain brat." He pauses, sobering. "Owen…"

Owen meets his gaze in the mirror, and Deckard doesn't think he'll ever not feel at least a small knot of bitter rage every time he sees the disfigured ruin taking up half his little brother's face these days. Owen had been an overconfident idiot, but he's still _Deckard's brother_ , and nobody in the whole damn world should be able to hurt him like this and get away with it.

Owen reads it all off his face, and of course, that of all things _does_ make him smile, genuine and pleased, like he still needs proof after all these years that Deckard's code has never changed.

Deckard scowls, more resigned than annoyed, and then arches a demanding eyebrow in return.

Owen huffs and looks away. "…I didn't notice. It isn't as if I can feel much of anything on my left side anymore anyway." He tugs down the sleeves he'd rolled up when he'd been working. And alone in the penthouse. Deckard hasn't seen him in a t-shirt since the last time they'd seen each other before the coma. "It's fine, Deckard. I'll be more careful."

He walks away, footsteps silent as a ghost's against the hardwood floor, and Deckard waits until he hears the door to the office click shut again before slamming a fist into the closest hard surface at hand.

The mirror shatters.

* * *

For a moment, after returning Toretto's kid, Deckard had thought he and Owen would part ways again. His brother was back on his feet, and they've both had all their charges dropped, a clean slate to blacken all over again, and there are reasons the two of them have rarely worked together in the past. One being that the world might not actually survive them, but also two, their methods were simply on opposite sides of the spectrum. Owen liked playing around with his long cons, while Deckard preferred straightforward kills that finished the job as swiftly and efficiently as possible. Not that they _couldn't_ work together, their skillsets have always complimented each other, but for the most part, they've walked their own paths in the world and been content with them.

But in the aftermath of going after Cipher and helping Toretto's crew, Deckard had also taken one look at the distance in Owen's eyes and the too-brittle too-reckless violence colouring his surface-deep smile, and it had occurred to him then that he had no idea if he'd ever see his brother alive again if he let Owen take off on his own in that moment.

So he'd dragged him back to his residence in London instead. He didn't bother keeping too close a watch on him - Deckard's fairly confident in his own ability to track his brother down no matter where he went - but the fact that he'd stuffed Owen into his spare bedroom at all seemed enough to tip Owen off that Deckard was worried about him.

Normally, it would've pissed Owen right off. His little brother has always been that way - more than happy for the world to know that they couldn't mess with him without Deckard Shaw putting a bullet in them, but never failing to take offense if _Deckard_ ever implied that Owen couldn't handle his own shit.

Owen's a contrary bastard like that.

This time though, he'd looked at Deckard and his features had tightened with something left of contempt, but in the end, he hadn't argued, hadn't even complained. He'd followed Deckard up to his penthouse, moved in what little of his immediate belongings he'd had on him, and settled in for the long haul.

It had been fucking unnerving, and Deckard had hated every minute of it. But he'd far rather deal with that than no brother at all.

* * *

The first time Deckard comes home in the middle of the night after a quick job three cities over, he finds Owen's bedroom door half-open and the light still on. Owen's asleep though so Deckard figures he nodded off reading or something. He does the logical thing and flips off the light-

-and then has to duck the knife that comes flying at his head with unerring accuracy, embedding itself in the wall behind him instead. Half a breath after that, Owen has bowled him over, fists swinging, and they destroy half the hall and the entire sitting area before Deckard manages to pin his brother down.

Wild eyes and a desperate sort of fury stares back at him, unseeing, and it takes another five minutes to grapple and shout his brother back into the present. All the fight leaves him after that, ending with Owen hunched over and shaking uncontrollably, no matter how hard he tries to hide it, breaths coming harsh and uneven, teetering on the brink of a panic that Deckard has never seen in him before.

He remembers the black site prison then. _Nasty_ didn't cover it. Owen spent the couple days they could spare between the prison and Russia stumbling around and rubbing circulation back into his limbs, detoxing from the cocktail of drugs they’d pumped him full of every few days to keep him slow and clumsy, and trying to adjust his eyes to light again after almost a year chained up in near complete darkness. Deckard almost didn't tell him about the job, honestly wondering if his brother was in any shape to even be standing, let alone pull off an infiltration mission, but Owen simply glared at him with bloodshot eyes, shot himself up with adrenaline before Deckard could stop him, and then went to get suited up for the jump, because he was a bloody Shaw through and through, and not a single one of them has ever known when to give up.

He all but collapsed after everything was over though. Deckard had made sure to kill every single person running that prison and even left the place a crater before going after Cipher, but in his opinion, it had still not been enough. That's never been made clearer until this moment though, with his brother gasping in front of him like he can't get enough air, and all Deckard can do is hover uselessly at his side.

In the end, he heaves Owen to his feet and over to the mostly intact sofa. He clamps an arm around Owen's shoulders and ignores his half-hearted protests, and eventually, Owen falls back to sleep like that, slumped against Deckard like he's five all over again, dead to the world like he knows nothing can touch him so long as his older brother's there.

Deckard doesn't sleep that night.

In the morning, after calling people to fix the place up, he makes sure to get the room lights adjusted as well to include degrees, so Owen can dim them as he pleases instead of needing to pick one or the other.

Owen watches him, silent and various shades of resentfully embarrassed, but he also cooks Deckard's favourites that night, and Deckard can't decide if it's meant as thanks or apology. He settles on thanks so that he doesn't have to black his brother's eye for being stupid.

* * *

Most of the time, Owen works on regaining his previous strength. He hadn't finished his physio when he'd been transferred to the prison, but even if he had, sitting in a cell all day every day for a year would've put a dent into anyone's condition.

He doesn't look in the mirror much these days. The reminder of everything he's lost because of Toretto, because of Cipher, because of his own hubris, is a sour enough pill to swallow without literally staring it in the face every day.

He catches Deckard watching him sometimes though. It's not even difficult, his brother's been watching him like he thinks Owen might keel over or run off or possibly jump in front of traffic ever since he'd broken him out of prison. Ridiculous of course. Even if Owen felt like offing himself, the first thing he'd do is make certain Deckard didn't suspect a thing, and wait until his older brother was sufficiently placated and occupied with his own life again, before going through with it in some remote corner of the world that Deckard would hopefully never think to look. The point is moot though, because he doesn't.

He's just been a little… numb, he supposes. Figuratively and literally. He can't feel anything along most of his left side anymore. Or maybe he can, in that his skin feels too stretched, but otherwise there's nothing. Just the other day, he'd been waiting for the kettle to boil, and he'd accidentally let his left arm press against the metal, too focused on touching base with a few of his contacts to notice until the kettle whistled and he'd smelt burnt flesh.

He's made damn sure Deckard hasn't noticed that.

It doesn't help that he doesn't really know what to do with himself either, aside from getting back into shape and checking in on some of his investments. Half the reason he'd taken Cipher's job was because he'd been bored, and assembling a Nightshade device had sounded like a challenge. Before that, the heists he'd pulled off and the empires he'd helped build had become… routine. Parts of it had still been exciting - the shootouts, the pseudo-races, the occasional wrench out of left field - but one job had blurred into the next, and the next, and the next, and they had all more or less become the same in the end. He'd seen their outcomes before he'd even finished them, knew he'd succeed before he'd even enacted step one of a plan, let alone the contingencies he'd lined up behind it, and… well. Apparently, it had made him arrogant, too much so, he'd underestimated an opponent for possibly the first time in his goddamn life, and he'd paid for it in full.

And if that wasn't bad enough, he'd made Deckard pay for it too.

Deckard would probably break his jaw if Owen ever said as much out loud. And usually, Owen would have no problem letting his older brother finish his battles for him. But usually, Owen didn't come out of those battles halfway to dead and catatonic, so Deckard had never had reason to flip the bloody fuck out and lose his common sense in a way he never has before when he went after his targets.

Deckard's usual modus operandi has always favoured stealth, and if he'd just gone with that, it would've seen Toretto and his entire crew picked off like flies and dead before they hit the ground. But he'd been loud about everything instead, all flash and fire because he'd wanted to raze their whole world to the ground in recompense, and the reason for that can be laid right at Owen's feet.

Owen's always loved the fact that his older brother would kill just about anyone for him. Still loves it, despite the past three years. But it's also because of the past three years that - for the first time since he can remember - he regrets it a little too.

He's not quite sure what to do about that, not quite sure how to jump back into his old line of work either because _what if he screws up again?_

_What would that mean for Deckard?_

It was never the near-death that scared him most, or being carted away into a hole so deep he wasn't sure even his older brother would be able to find him.

No, what scared him most was waking up in the dark, locked in his head and then locked in a cage, disoriented and weak with pieces of _Deckard is hurt_ and _Deckard is in prison_ and _Deckard escaped_ and _Deckard was killed_ and _Deckard isn't coming_ and _Deckard **is** coming you just have to wait a little longer_ all jumbled up in his head, and never quite remembering which ones were the dreams and which one was reality.

So now he drifts, lost and struggling and refusing to admit to either as he tries to figure out how to fit himself back into the world.

* * *

The next time Deckard catches Owen scratching at his scars through the sleeve of his shirt (while staring at the far wall, and is it any fucking wonder Deckard has _concerns_ ), he suppresses his first instinct - to lunge at Owen and possibly do his level best to shake some sense back into him - and grabs two beers from the fridge instead, then turns the TV on to the playoffs and drops down beside his brother.

Owen blinks. Deckard pushes one of the beers into his hands.

"Game's on," He says, nodding at the screen.

Owen follows his line of sight, then sighs like Deckard knew he would, fond and exasperated in turn.

"Your football obsession," He murmurs, and he isn't half as interested in the sport as Deckard is, but the way he sinks back into the sofa and idly spins his beer bottle between his hands in showy little flourishes without ever spilling a drop is entirely familiar as well.

Satisfied for the time being, Deckard relaxes and turns his attention back to the game.

Owen doesn't reach for his scars again for the rest of the day.

* * *

People stare when Owen goes out. They always have, but now they stare for a whole other reason. Deckard's favourite pub in the early morning at least provides some privacy, but even there, prying eyes linger on Owen's scars like they have any kind of right to the history behind them.

The only reason Deckard isn't back on someone's wanted list for shooting up a public establishment or three is because Owen doesn't care.

"Let them stare," Owen says, actually looking amused when he meets one woman's intrusive eyes, smiling sharp and mocking when she flushes and hurries away. "They never do for long. How boring."

Deckard shakes his head and fetches their coffees when the barista sets them down on the counter. "You have a twisted sense of humour, Owen."

"Pots and kettles, Deckard," Owen says airily as they make for the door.

Deckard rolls his eyes, but when the door swings open and the man coming in takes one look at Owen and recoils, a truly _coincidental_ placement of Owen's heel against the sod's instep drops him to the floor with a yelp and an ungainly flail of limbs. Deckard catches Owen's eye as they step outside, and he can't help matching his brother's smirk with one of his own as he kicks the door shut behind them just hard enough to knock into the man's arse and - judging by the shouting and swearing - send the wanker crashing headlong into a table.

It's ridiculous, and they're both right bastards, but they also snigger like schoolchildren as they make their escape, and the world in that moment seems especially bright.

* * *

Touching the scars is another matter. Owen doesn't care when it's Deckard, when he accidentally scratches his own flesh open and his brother patches him up with gentle hands and a thunderous scowl, or when he finally gets the skin grafts and his brother helps him change the bandages for the first couple weeks.

The first time someone comes up to flirt with him though - after his facial scars become all but invisible in dim lighting - and puts a hand on his left arm, even through a layer of fabric, Owen almost breaks that hand and then some. Only Deckard - finished with interrogating one of his contacts - shouldering his way between them and slanting stone-cold killer eyes at the lady prevents a dead body that night.

Strangely enough, it's only a problem in non-violent situations. Once, when Owen is alone and picks up three tails who've apparently heard that Owen Shaw is out and about again but was brought down by a bunch of civilians and should therefore be easy pickings now, he swings into an empty alley and proceeds to teach them just how wrong their assumptions are.

He blocks blows with both arms and breaks bones with both hands just fine, and he walks home feeling settled in his skin for the first time since the Nightshade job. This at least has not been taken from him.

The rest will follow. Owen won't allow for anything less.

* * *

Sometimes, Deckard leaves in the morning for a job while Owen's still in bed, and comes back in the evening to find Owen still in bed. He's never quite sure whether his brother gets up at all in-between, and it's one of those things he knows that if he asks, Owen will simply respond with a blank look and a distraction.

It doesn't happen often so Deckard refrains from doing anything too drastic. Right up until it goes on for over three days, bathroom breaks aside, and then he forcibly kicks Owen out of bed, and the ensuing fight tears up half the penthouse for a second time but ends with both of them sweating and panting for breath, bruises blossoming over knuckles, and Owen with blood in his teeth and a familiar edge of dark exhilaration in his grin, bright-eyed and alive in a way that makes Deckard breathe a little easier despite his own bloodied nose.

They start sparring regularly after that. It isn't even all for Owen's benefit. It's been a long time since Deckard's had a regular sparring partner, and never any who matches up to him as well as his own brother. Deckard's _better_ and they both know it, but Owen's quicker and wilier and knows how Deckard fights, and even at less than full health, he's good enough to give Deckard a decent challenge.

Owen improves, both mentally and physically, and Deckard doesn't get rusty. Win-win.

* * *

He gets better. He judges it by using both himself and the way Deckard's shoulders start looking less tense as a measuring stick. Looking himself in the mirror isn't so difficult anymore either.

He still has no idea what to do with his life. The people who used to answer to him - after he helped set them up with jobs or got rid of their competitors or smuggled them out of countries and hid them from their enemies - begin reaching out to him once they realize he is neither dead nor permanently disappeared by the government after all, and he answers when they do because one can never have too many favours waiting to be collected in both high and low places.

Not all of them do of course. There probably isn't anyone of any significance in the underworld who didn't hear about his downfall and subsequent three-year absence, and in that time, more than a few idiots have decided that with Owen Shaw out of the picture and a power vacuum left in his wake, it would be a good idea to try their hand at taking over his network. It's resulted in everything from assassinations to turf wars that have tanked businesses and dragged in collateral and generally made a huge mess of things, and Owen's not even surprised because most people are nothing if not predictable.

Now that he's out, he could probably scare them back into line without too much trouble, but even just thinking about it feels too tedious to bother with. Those who've betrayed him once will eventually betray him again. Best to cut his losses and let the vultures destroy themselves. Besides, not a single one of them had been able - or probably even willing - to help him when he needed help most. Not a one except Deckard, and Deckard doesn't count because he's family and there are no debts between them, but if there were, Owen could owe his brother a million times over, never pay back a single one, and still have confidence that Deckard would come back for a million and one.

But that still leaves him with his current predicament. Which doesn't have to be a predicament if he simply… gets rid of it. Bad parts should be swapped out. _Unnecessary_ parts should be thrown out.

He smiles. Maybe he'll have some direction back in his life after all. At least until this little problem is dealt with.

* * *

Owen disappears for two weeks, long enough for Deckard to start looking into his brother's whereabouts, only for the man in question to breeze back in again shortly after, not a hair out of place but smiling in that vaguely psychotic way of his that means he's just finished killing a bunch of people.

Deckard bites back a sigh of relief and doesn't ask. Owen will share when he wants to.

Three days later, a huge drug-trafficking ring operating out of France with trade ties in America goes up in flames, and the amount of people arrested and illegal goods seized is enough to make it international news. Deckard raises his eyebrows at the television, then side-eyes Owen across the kitchen island until his brother rolls his eyes.

"Berger was getting above himself," Owen mutters around his coffee, half his attention still on the tablet beside him.

Deckard digests the implications of that, then asks pointedly, "You made sure no one will mention your name?"

Owen glances up long enough to smirk at him. "No one who could is still alive."

Deckard grunts his approval, and they finish the rest of breakfast in companionable silence.

* * *

Over the next few months, half a dozen more trafficking rings, three terrorist organizations, and a slew of assassins and mercenaries all either turn up dead or the locations and specifics of their various bases of operations are suddenly popping up on every database of every major law enforcement agency in their associated countries. It's a little like watching the world burn, piece by piece, and Deckard thinks the most impressive thing about it is that two-thirds of the work was done right on his sofa as the criminal mastermind himself worked from his laptop and phone, socked feet kicked up on the coffee table, occasionally smirking evilly to himself but mostly just looking bored out of his mind.

It's easy to forget, sometimes, even for Deckard, that Owen is actually the genius of the family. It's just that his reckless streak can and has given it a run for its money - when he's an idiot, he a bloody idiot of monumental proportions - and the rather spectacular fallouts of those incidents tend to outshine just about everything else. But when he's at his best, calm and calculating and twenty steps ahead of everyone else, Owen is untouchable.

The day Deckard's own sources tell him that Arturo Braga was discovered a mutilated corpse in his own prison cell, Deckard sits and stares at his brother until Owen murmurs, "He gave information about me to O'Connor."

Deckard hums, unsurprised. "Didn't O'Connor shank him for the information?" There was a mention of that in one of the reports he'd gotten off Hobbs' computer.

Owen smiles thinly. "Then he should've taken it to the grave, shouldn't he?"

Deckard thinks about the black ops units he's been systematically picking off one by one ever since the Cipher job - the units who had the unfortunate responsibility of transporting his brother to that black site prison - and quirks a mean smile of his own.

They're Shaws. The day they give the world an inch is the day every last one of them is dead and buried.

* * *

Owen burns half his network to ash, leaving the other half quaking in their boots. He even crates a few terrorists - still alive - and mails them right to the doorstep of the DSS, neatly gift-wrapped and addressed to "The Two-Bit Government Hack", just because it amuses him. And he doesn't even include a bomb.

" _Why_ are you like this?" His brother groans when he hears about it, but Owen also catches him hiding a smirk behind his hand and knows he doesn't have to answer, because at the end of the day, they both consider poking dragons a more hilarious pastime than it probably should be.

Deckard sighs like he isn't laughing on the inside, but when he looks at Owen, it's with entirely too much gravity. "Are you done now? Gotten it outta your system?"

Owen looks down at his laptop. _Is_ he done? Well, technically yes, because if he keeps going, he'll be burning contacts he _does_ want to keep, and he hasn't gone that far round the bend quite yet.

But if he's done, then what is he supposed to do next?

As if reading his mind, Deckard says quietly, "Why don't you try taking a job? Any job. Something simple. Get back in the field and see how you do."

Owen gives him a dry look. "I _have_ been in the field. All those people didn't kill themselves, Deck."

Deckard rolls his eyes because he knows Owen's being difficult on purpose. "A proper one. Get paid." He punches Owen in the ribs, light enough by their standards that it's practically a tap. "Go get a bloody job, Owen. You're bored outta your skull, and stayin' here ain't helping."

Deckard huffs. " _You_ dragged me back here."

"Yes, because you needed me to," Deckard tells him, blunt and unrelenting. "But you need somethin' else now, and I ain't any kinda brother to you if I don't make sure you get it."

Owen drops his gaze to his hands. There's a patch of scars near his left wrist that still stands out starkly, and overall, he still doesn't have much feeling in anything on his left. Funny how it's bothered him less recently. He's adjusted, perhaps. Learned to double-check for anything too hot nearby. Learned to keep his hands occupied. Learned to live with it without feeling the urge to peel himself out of his own skin.

When he looks up, Deckard is still waiting for him, as patient as he's always been with Owen, even when he didn't deserve it.

"I'm going alone," Owen says.

His brother nods, and that's that.

* * *

It only takes a week - a corporate spy, turned against her own company, taking money from under the table, sleeping with the boss, who didn't take too kindly to it when he found out she's been selling secrets for years. She'd fled before he could call the cops, so instead, he'd put out a hit. Owen puts a bullet between her eyes through her hotel window in the early hours of the day, and he's long gone by the time her body is found.

Simple and clean. Not at all difficult.

His next job takes him two countries over. Five targets, four shot from afar, the last taken out in a deserted parking lot after Owen successfully herds and corners him there. He gets paid. He goes home.

He tries a heist for his third. One bank, several heirlooms, and a dozen dead security guards later, and he's done. His employer attempts to double-cross him because he's a greedy son-of-a-bitch and doesn't want to pay, so Owen puts a bullet in him too and decides the heirlooms would look fantastic in his own rare artifacts collection.

Fourth, fifth, and sixth are a mixed bag - murder and mayhem, theft and single-man cons. In and out like a ghost, the way he does best.

A dozen jobs later and he's still going strong. It's still not _hard_ , not like the Nightshade job after he hit that point where every move he made somehow turned to shit on him. But he finds himself tweaking his plans, adjusting certain variables he'd never had to before in order to find a way to complete each mission on his own, because sometimes there are five different tasks to the job that he'd usually employ five different people to accomplish, but now he only has himself, and so he has to figure out a way to do them all. He thinks, briefly, of assembling another team, but…

"You like working alone," Owen remarks one evening when he and his brother are both home.

Deckard shrugs. "Always have. Had enough of leadin' teams back in my army days, and it's a headache and a half working with people I didn't train myself." He glances at Owen with a knowing smirk. "But it's also more fun, isn't it? Nothing like pulling off a job on your own and knowing you're good enough to get it done."

* * *

A year and a half after Toretto and Cipher and that godforsaken black site prison, Deckard looks at his brother and no longer feels like he'll disappear if he turns away for too long. Owen never does move out, and Deckard doesn't mind, especially since it seems to act as something of an anchoring influence on his brother. The penthouse is big enough for both of them, and sometimes only one of them is home, and other times they both get back within the same timeframe before heading out again, but they certainly see each other more regularly these days than they had for years before Toretto. Sometimes, they visit Mum, who's somehow landed herself in jail and doesn't seem to want to get out anytime soon, God knows why, but she's delighted to see her two sons visit her together, and she's started dropping not-so-subtle hints about making up with Hattie. Deckard doesn't know how much longer he'll be able to put her off, but at least she's nagging Owen's ear off about it too.

Owen works alone these days. Some might look at that and compare it to Owen's formidable well-oiled teams back in the day, and call it backsliding or a downgrade, but Deckard would be more than happy to stick a knife in those people. He never even realized what his brother was missing until he sees it again now - a light back in his eyes, contained and focused but energized. Deckard hasn't seen this spark in him in _years_. He still doesn't know what it was about those teams Owen had assembled and switched out every mission that had dragged him down so much, but _they had dragged him down_. They'd done their jobs, because Owen employed nothing but the best, but they'd still been deadweight, and if they weren't all already dead, Deckard would've spared his brother the effort and gotten rid of them himself.

So they work alone, the Shaw brothers, and on occasion, they even work alone together, when a job is particularly tough, and Owen gets that slant to his expression, the one that says combining their skillsets this time would be especially thrilling and as a bonus probably scare the piss out of anyone who recognizes their handiwork.

Deckard never minds that either. He's been indulging his brother his entire life, and that's never going to change, not so long as Owen is alive and kicking, and Deckard would kill anyone who threatens that.

They're Shaws after all, and they're not nearly finished with the world.


End file.
